Pacific Vortex! (Dirk Pitt 1)

“I’m afraid I must see your orders, sir.”

Pitt wasn’t in the mood for gung ho procedure. Marines irritated him, all puffy-chested, eager for a fight, looking for any excuse to break out in a chorus of the “Marine Hymn.”

I’ll show my papers to the officer in charge and no one else.”

“My orders are...”

“Your orders are to check identification cards against a list of people who may enter the building,” Pitt said coldly. “No one gave you permission to play hero and check papers.” Pitt motioned at the door. “Now, if you’ll be so kind.”

The red-faced sergeant looked as though he could not decide whether to haul off and punch Pitt in the mouth. But he hesitated a moment, studied the icy expression on Pitt’s face, turned, opened the door behind him, and nodded for Pitt to follow.

The interior of the Quonset hut was empty but for a couple of overturned chairs, a dusty file cabinet, and several faded newspapers scattered over the floor. The place smelled musty and cobwebs were dangling from the ceiling. Pitt was thoroughly puzzled until the sergeant stopped near the back of the deserted room and stomped twice on the wooded flooring. Hearing a muffled acknowledgment, he lifted a perfectly concealed trapdoor and motioned Pitt to descend down a dimly lit stairway. Then he stepped aside as the concealed door dropped behind him, barely missing Pitt’s descending head by a few inches.

Shades of Edgar Allan Poe, Pitt thought At the bottom of the stairs he pushed aside a heavy curtain and stepped into a carnival of noisy activity. Before him was a large underground bunker stretching almost two hundred feet The overhead fluorescent lights revealed an operations room to end operations rooms. From paneled wall to paneled wall lay a thick beige carpet covered by desks, computers, and teletype machines that would have easily meshed into the plushest offices of Madison Avenue.

A bevy of attractive girls in prim and proper naval uniforms unsmilingly manned most of the desks, some furiously typing away at their respective video displays, some moving with fluidlike grace around the row of computers that stood in the center of the room. Twenty male officers in Navy whites stood in isolated groups examining computer readout sheets or jotting down a series of complex notations on the green chalk boards which covered the walls. The whole scene looked like a high-class betting parlor. The only thing missing was the monotonous voice of a race announcer.

Admiral Hunter caught sight of Pitt, straightened, smiled his sly fox-toothed smile, and strode forward with his hand outstretched.

“Welcome aboard the new headquarters of the 101st, Mr. Pitt.”

“Most impressive.”

Hunter casually waved around the vast room. “Built during World War Two. Hasn’t been used since. I couldn’t bear to see it go to waste, so I moved in.”

Hunter took Pitt’s arm and steered him over to a partitioned office in one corner of the bunker which they entered. The deeply set face, the authoritative expression, and the intense eyes made Hunter a perfect prototype for the gimlet-eyed task force commander who was about to attack an unseen enemy over the horizon. Which was precisely what he was.

“You’re exactly two hours and thirty-eight minutes late,” Hunter said firmly.

“Sorry, sir. The traffic got a bit sticky.”

“So you told me over the phone. I wish to compliment you for your call. I’m grateful for the fact that you contacted me first. Good thinking.”

“I’m only sorry I blew it by leaving the scene of the crash.”

“Don’t sweat it. I doubt if we’d have learned much from the body except a possible identification. Most likely your friend in the truck was only a local hoodlum paid for the job of putting you in a cemetery.”

“Still, there might have been something...”

“Agents,” Hunter interrupted sarcastically, “seldom leave notes describing their operations pinned on the shirts of their hired help.”

“By agents, you mean the Russians?”

“Maybe. We have no proof as yet, but our intelligence people seem to think that the Russians have an organization nosing around the neighborhood trying to dig up the Starbuck’s final position so they can grab their hooks into her first.”

“Admiral Sandecker mentioned such a possibility.”

“A damn good man.” There was satisfaction in Hunter’s voice. “He showed me your personnel file this morning. I must admit in all honesty, I was caught unprepared by the contents. Distinguished Flying Cross with two clusters, Silver Star, plus several other commendations and a Purple Heart. Frankly, I had you down a

s a rip-off artist.”

Hunter picked up a pack of cigarettes from his desk and offered them to Pitt

The old bastard, Pitt thought, is actually making an attempt at courtesy. “You probably noted that there was no mention of a Good Conduct Medal.” Pitt passed on the cigarettes.

Hunter regarded Pitt with searching eyes. “I noticed.” He took a cigarette and struck a light, then leaned over the desk and pushed a switch on his intercom. “Yager, round up Commanders Denver and Boland, and send them in here.” He broke off, turned, and jerked down a wall map of the North Pacific Ocean. “The Pacific Vortex, Major, ever hear of it?”

“Not until this morning.”